Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
GRAYSON
By six thirty, the garage is empty. Luis leaves twenty minutes ago after asking twice whether I’m sure I don’t need help closing. I tell him to go home to his wife. He gives me a look that says he knows I have no intention of leaving anytime soon, but he knows better than to argue.
Headlights sweep across the garage. I look up as a small blue sedan turns into the lot. My body reacts before my mind does.
I straighten. My pulse changes.
Molly parks outside the center bay but doesn’t immediately get out. She sits behind the wheel with both hands gripping it, staring through the windshield.
For one second, I consider walking over and locking the door. If she finds the shop closed, she’ll leave. I’ll be disappointed. I’ll also be safe.
Then her car door opens. There’s no chance of saving myself now.
Molly steps out. She has changed into dark jeans and a pale blue blouse with a low neckline.
The fabric moves softly around her body as she crosses the lot.
Her brown hair is down, falling over her shoulders in loose waves instead of the braid she wore two days prior.
My gaze drops before I can stop it. The blouse reveals the graceful line of her neck, the delicate silver chain resting against her skin, and more of her chest than I’ve ever seen. Heat hits me hard and low.
I look away. Engaged to my son. Five days from her wedding. These are the things I need to remember. I repeat every reason I shouldn’t want her until the words blur into meaningless noise.
She stops at the edge of the garage. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Are you closed?”
“Yes.”
Her face falls. “Oh. I can come back tomorrow.”
I should let her. Instead, I walk to the wall and press the button that lowers the outer bay door behind her car.
“I’m still here.”
The heavy metal door begins to descend, cutting off the view of the street. Molly glances at it. The air changes. We’re alone now. Completely alone.
“I came to apologize.” She says.
“For what?”
“The principal.”
My hands flatten against the counter. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I should never have let her speak to you that way.”
“She was doing her job.”
“She made you feel unwelcome.” She looks down.
“I wasn’t approved to be there.”
“You were reading a book.”
“To children whose parents trust the school to decide which adults are allowed near them.”
“You wouldn’t hurt them.”
“She doesn’t know that.”
“I do.”
The certainty in her voice hits me squarely in the chest. I stare at her.
Molly steps farther into the garage, her heels making faint taps against the concrete. The rear of the garage is darker than the front, illuminated by two long fluorescent lights suspended over the work area. Customer vehicles occupy the first two bays, but the final bay belongs to me.
A black 1970 Chevrolet Chevelle sits beneath a canvas cover. It doesn’t need the protection inside the garage. I keep it covered anyway. Dust gets into everything, and this car has survived too much to be neglected now.
Molly stops beside me. “What’s under there?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s obviously not true.”
“It’s a car.”
“What kind?”
“The kind with four wheels.”
She folds her arms. “I thought you wanted to teach me about cars.”
“I said I’d be happy to teach you one day.”
“You said that?”
“I’m saying it now.”
Her smile makes something tighten low in my stomach.
“Then start with this one.”
I should refuse. This car is personal. More personal than the details of my conviction, which can be found by anyone with internet access and enough curiosity.
Almost no one touches the Chevelle. Luis knows better than to remove the cover without asking. Carter has driven it once, complained about the lack of Bluetooth, and never showed interest again.
But Molly is looking at it with genuine curiosity. I reach for the canvas. “Stand back.”
She does, barely. I pull the cover toward me.
The Chevelle emerges slowly beneath the bright shop lights, black paint gleaming like still water.
Chrome catches the fluorescent glow along the grille and bumpers.
The long hood, clean lines, and polished wheels belong to an era when cars were built to be felt as much as driven.
Molly’s lips part.
“Oh.”
I look at the car instead of her. “That’s a disappointing reaction.”
“No, it’s beautiful.”
I can’t stop the pride that moves through me. “Yes, it is.”
She walks around the front, careful not to touch. “How old is it?”
“Nineteen seventy.”
“You’ve kept it in incredible condition.”
“It wasn’t in incredible condition when I got it.”
“What was wrong with it?”
“Everything.”
I trail my fingertips along the edge of the hood. “The engine was seized. Transmission was gone. Floor pans were rusted through. The wiring had been chewed apart by mice. Most people would’ve sent it to a scrapyard.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I look at the windshield. My reflection stares back at me. Gray at my temples. Lines around my eyes. A face harder than the one I had when I first stood in front of this car.
“It was the first car I learned to work on after I got out of prison.”
Molly goes still.
I almost never say the word aloud. Prison. It carries too much weight. People hear it and see steel bars before they see me. But she already knows. I’m tired of pretending she doesn’t. Molly looks at me again.
“I couldn’t change where I’d been,” I tell her. “Couldn’t change what people saw when they looked at me. But machines don’t care about a man’s past. An engine doesn’t care whether you’re a felon. If you understand what it needs and you’re willing to do the work, it responds.”
“You rebuilt your life with this car.”
“I learned how to make a living because of it. By the time I got the Chevelle running, I knew enough for Hank to put me on payroll. A few years later, he helped me open this place.”
“So it taught you everything.”
“Almost.”
I press the release beneath the hood and lift it. The restored engine gleams beneath us.
Molly moves closer. “I don’t know what I’m looking at.”
“You’re looking at the reason I have a roof over my head.”
She leans over slightly. The neckline of her blouse falls away from her body. I see soft skin. A glimpse of pale lace. Every thought in my head vanishes. I turn sharply toward the tool bench.
“Is that part the engine?” she asks.
“All of it is the engine.”
“This entire thing?”
“Yes.”
“What does that do?”
I glance back.
She points to the air cleaner.
“Helps filter dirt from the air before it enters the engine.”
“And that?”
“Alternator.”
“What does it do?”
“Charges the battery and powers the electrical system while the engine runs.”
Molly straightens, and the blouse shifts back into place. It doesn’t help. Now that I’ve seen what it hides, my imagination supplies the rest.
“You need to leave.” I blurt out.
“What? Why?”
The look of confusion on her face pinches me inside. But I’m done. I can’t contain myself and all I can do is be honest at this point. Maybe she’ll be so horrified that she’ll leave and this won’t be a problem for me anymore.
“I think you need to decide what you want before you come into my garage dressed like that and start looking at me the way you are.” I say.
Her breath catches. “Dressed like what?”
I drag my gaze down her body before I can stop myself. The movement is slow. Deliberate. When I meet her eyes again, her cheeks are flushed.
“That blouse,” I say.
“There’s nothing wrong with my blouse.”
“No.” My voice lowers. “There isn’t.”
Her lips part. “You keep staring at me,” she whispers.
“You should leave.”
“But you keep looking at me like you don’t want me to.”
I don’t answer. She takes another step. Less than a foot separates us now. Her perfume surrounds me. Something light and sweet that doesn’t belong in a place smelling of motor oil and metal. I brace one hand against the car beside me.
“Molly.”
A trace of uncertainty moves through her eyes. It should be enough to make me stop. Then her gaze drops to my mouth.
Every ounce of restraint I possess snaps. I reach for her. One hand closes around her waist, and the other cups the side of her neck. She gasps as I pull her against me. Her body fits mine too well. Soft against hard. Warm against every cold, empty place inside me.
I give her one last second to push me away. She doesn’t. My mouth takes hers. The first kiss isn’t gentle. It can’t be.
I’ve been fighting the need to do this since her fingertips brushed my palm in the classroom. Since she looked at me with those green eyes and smiled as if I were something more than the worst thing I’ve ever done.
She makes a soft sound against my lips. It destroys what little control I have left. I turn us, pressing her back carefully against the side of the Chevelle. My hand spreads across her waist, holding her close without trapping her. Her fingers twist into the front of my shirt.
I kiss her again. Slower this time. Deeper. She rises onto her toes and kisses me back with a hunger that matches mine.
That’s what makes it wrong. If she were startled, I could stop. If she resisted, I could walk away. But Molly opens for me. Her hand slides up my chest, over my shoulder, and into the hair at the back of my neck. Her lips are soft, tentative for only a second before instinct takes over.
I taste the faint sweetness of her lip gloss. My thumb moves along her jaw. She trembles. I want more. I want everything. The thought jolts through me.
I tear my mouth from hers, but I don’t release her. My forehead rests against hers as we both struggle to breathe.
“This can’t happen,” she whispers.
“No.” Her fingers remain buried in my hair. I stare down at her swollen lips.
“You’re Carter’s father.”
“I know.”
“My wedding is in five days.”
“I know that too.”
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“No.”
I lean in and brush my mouth over hers again. A mistake. A brief one. She follows when I pull away. I catch her bottom lip between mine, and the kiss deepens all over again. Her hands grip my shoulders. Mine slides from her waist to the small of her back, drawing her flush against me.